


Deeper Than These Wounds

by DoesntMakeYouAGenius



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Body count is high, Development of friendships, Hunger Games AU, Hunger Games typical death levels, lots of death, not a very happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:31:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoesntMakeYouAGenius/pseuds/DoesntMakeYouAGenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk wasn't a fighter. He wasn't a killer. He certainly wasn't a hero. And then, suddenly, he was.</p><p>~~~~~</p><p>Or the one where I throw my favourite Star Trek characters into the Games, and they form an unlikely alliance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deeper Than These Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops.
> 
> I tripped over a rock, or a log, or some air, and I fell headfirst into the Star Trek fandom, midway through an obsession with Hunger Games AUs. So I decided to marry my two current loves and this fic was born. You'll have to tell me whether that was a good or a bad thing...
> 
> TheNerdHerdIsComing did so much beta work on this, she practically wrote it herself. God bless you, my darling.
> 
> Also, it's my birthday, so here is my present, to you, from me, for you, for me, from you.
> 
> Love you.  
> ~The Effect

James Kirk rolled over in bed, chasing the fading wisps of sleep as they blew from his mind. He sighed deeply; today, he just didn't want to wake up at all. 

He wasn't afraid of the reaping, though many citizens of District Seven were. He just hated it. He couldn’t understand the how the brutal killing of twenty three children for the sake of entertainment had become so institutionalised and accepted across Panem. The idea that one day, just like his brother, he could be lying inside that arena, calmly bleeding out into the grass while the nation looked on made him feel sick, though at least he wouldn't leave anyone to mourn. There would be no seven year old Jim Kirk sobbing in the corner of the room, praying to whatever gods may be that it was someone else, not his brother, his closest family, who had died.

No, if he went, there would be no more Kirks.

Kirk had had nine years to hone his pain of loss into a carefully controlled anger, an anger that would help him if ever he ended up inside a dome with twenty three tributes baying for his blood. An anger so perfectly played that he could hide that he had it in him, pretend it wasn't there at all, but there it was, and there it would stay for the rest of his life, just barely under control.

Resigning himself to the fact that morning had broken, that nothing he could do would stop this day from taking place, Kirk rolled gracelessly from bed and shuffled through the wood cabin he called home. The dark exposed boards of the walls had been secured by the loving hands of Kirk's late father, the floor worn by four sets of feet, then three, two, now only one walked the lonely rooms of the Kirks' cabin.

Slipping into his boots, Kirk trudged outside, knowing that a walk was the only thing which could possibly bring him even a degree of calm this morning. Slamming the door behind him, he was almost immediately surrounded by the vast forest which made up most of his district. He soon deviated from the path he took to work each day, brushing his fingers over the rough, warped bark of the trees he had farmed from his eighth birthday. The skin of his fingers was tanned, marking him as lumberjack stock. Most people in seven looked alike, with brown hair and strong frames, but the carpenters and paper millers could be distinguished from the outdoor workers by their lighter skin.

There was a degree of peace to be drawn from the serenity of the trees, unfazed by the corruption and power imbalance in the world. He knew he had to get ready soon but took a moment to climb high into the boughs of a mahogany tree, letting his fingers find familiar grooves in the trunk before reaching for the mighty branches and pulling his body up metre by metre until he could see the whole district.

He smiled down on the peace, the silence as a few people milled about, preparing for the reaping. He pictured the tranquillity, so soon to be shattered by the wails of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, preparing to lose their child. It sickened him.

Unable to delay any longer, he swung down from the tree and headed home, shucking his boots, trousers, and tatty jacket, splashing generous amounts of water onto his face and combing his hair into order.  
Barely thinking, mind going through the motions on autopilot, he dressed in a pair of dark trousers and his best white shirt. He was left feeling cooped up and stuffy in the oppressive white cotton, but he ignored the sensation, the same as every year. 

Heading out to the square was difficult, looking into the eyes of all the eighteen year olds with their names in the bowl countless times, eyes hooded as they prepared for the worst. Seven was generally considered one of the middle class districts – he couldn’t imagine what they must have to endure in the districts like Twelve, if the abject poverty he saw every day was “middle class”. Most of those eighteen year olds had six years’ worth of tesserae to their names. The odds were never in their favour.  
Looking into the eyes of the twelve year olds was almost worse. Though their names would be much less numerous, their innocence hit Jim right in the heart, eyes wide with little idea what was going on, unable to be any less prepared for what was to come.

Kirk had stopped making eye contact with the other residents long ago.

Sorted into their pens, Kirk was wedged shoulder to shoulder with the other sixteen year old males, trying not to fidget or step on any toes, and trying to concentrate as the ridiculous host played a ridiculous video making ridiculous claims about the workings of Panem. Video finished, Altiva Warshaw tossed her coiled scarlet hair over her shoulder and extended delicately manicured hand to introduce the District Seven mentor, Christopher Pike, who sat stoically at the back of the stage, no happier with the coming events than any of the potential tributes.

"And without further ado, we shall pick the tributes!" Altiva babbled, chirpily. The teenage audience stared on, no attempts to lift spirits hitting home. "Ladies first."

Kirk marvelled at how Altiva's voice could be so high and girly, and wondered if she had had surgery of some form. Knowing how the Capitol worked, she probably had.

After much theatrics, Altiva drew a name, carefully opening the folded slip of paper. "Rhona Fairbanks." 

The small girl, only fourteen, climbed to the front, standing lonely on the stage and clearly trying not to cry. Her lower lip trembled, and she reached up to tug on her plaited blonde hair twice, clearly a nervous tic, before controlling her hands by knotting her fingers in front of her. Jim felt a twinge of pity. If that nervous tic was anything to go by, she wouldn’t last in the arena. She showed weakness far too easily.

Altiva clicked across the stage in her crimson high heels, her sheer, knee length pink dress wafting meaninglessly around her. She plunged her hand into the boys' globe, fingers dancing over the pieces, before settling on a slip. She withdrew her hand, and Kirk really wished she would get on with it, no need to prolong the suffering.

She slid a magenta nail under the flap and broke the seal. She unfolded the slip, looked at it, looked up at the crowd and announced the name.

"James Kirk."

There was a moment of silence, of complete calm, in which Kirk really didn't know what was happening. Then he was walking, nudged forward by a boy who must have recognised him. It came in fits and starts, leaving the pen, walking to the stage, climbing the steps.

Altiva had the tributes shake hands, and all Kirk could think was how fragile Rhona's hand felt, how she would never make it to the end of the games. Facing the crowd once more, there was a smattering of applause, and the mothers and fathers breathed out a collective sigh of relief, glad that their children were safe for another year. Kirk just felt hollow.

They were led in silence to separate rooms in order to say their goodbyes. Kirk crossed his legs and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sound of Rhona's mother sobbing, her older brother telling her she'd be okay, it'd be fine. There would be no one coming to reassure him, no one for him to reassure. He was on his own, as always, and he slipped into a semi-conscious state, breathing slowly, keeping totally removed from the situation. If he thought about it, he'd probably start screaming.

Too soon, always too soon, Altiva was back, beckoning them onwards. Pike stood just behind her, frown fixed seemingly permanently on his face. Kirk followed, because what else could he do? He took one last gaze across his district, the trees and the dirt tracks, and the empty log cabin, before Altiva shepherded him onto a train carriage and the place where he had loved and lost so much was cut off from view.

Kirk shook his head quickly, making sure he hadn't fallen into a parallel universe, taking in the polished perfection that was the train carriage, the glass chandelier, the luxury of every single thing, from the table, delicately carved from what was sure to be Seven’s finest mahogany, to the elegantly styled light switches. Altiva pushed him a little further in, and the door slid closed with a soft thud.

Kirk sat, a little numbly, at a low table in a deep, plush armchair. Rhona had vanished; Kirk assumed she was in a bathroom crying. He didn't have time to cry, he had to start concentrating now if he wanted any chance of survival. He knew he wasn't a born killer, so he had to dehumanise his competitors.

He couldn't use their names, that made them too real, he would use surnames. So Rhona was gone, Fairbanks in her place. Fairbanks wasn't a fourteen year old with a loving family and delicate hands, it was a title. A title for a competitor who he may well have to kill in order to survive. Kirk felt better already.

He pointedly didn’t look out of the window until they had left Seven. Theirs was a large district, and he could have spent the first hour sitting and watching his home go by, but he hadn’t wanted to. He’d said his goodbyes.

Once they’d left the district, he watched avidly through the windows as the other districts went by, marvelling at the buildings and the flora, pointedly not thinking of his fate at the Capitol, until Altiva waved them through to the dining car. 

The table was heaped high with food, smoked meats, assorted bread rolls, vegetable salads, fish dishes, rich desserts, and cold drinks. Kirk was tempted to dig in, but restrained himself, only for fear of being ill later. Instead, he helped himself to a high carbohydrate meal, starting to build his energy for the games ahead. He could feel Fairbanks' eyes on him, but didn't look up from his chicken and spaghetti, focussing on twisting the strands around his fork. He couldn't afford to pity Fairbanks, he had to set himself apart.

The meal passed in near silence, only Altiva deigning to pass comment whenever she felt the whim. Kirk rarely responded, allowing Pike to shoot her statements down. It was almost funny, with the dry humour that Pike capitalised on and Altiva didn't seem to understand. Kirk just kept his eyes down and ate.

They were soon grouped together in the main carriage, relaxing in near silence. Kirk had chosen his seat from earlier; the familiarity of the smooth wood of the table was the one comfort he had decided to permit himself. He left one hand resting on it, unobtrusive, but enough to settle himself. They watched the rerun of the reapings, which went by in a blur, only a few faces sticking out, then Altiva tried to make them talk. Kirk was having none of it. He didn't want to "bond", he didn't want to "engage", he didn't see the point. He said as much to Altiva at one point, and he didn't think he had ever seen a look of such indignation.

"Why not, dear? You're going to the Capitol, the heart of Panem! It will be a wonderful experience for both of you to share!" she exclaimed.

"Yep. It'll be marvellous. Right up until I die," Kirk spat, "or have to kill her."

Altiva was silent, her gold lips trembling a little. "That's no way to speak," she said, wounded.

"Altiva's right, Kirk. You need to enjoy it while it lasts. If the public see you having a nice time, it flatters them, and they'll be more likely to sponsor you." Pike decided to have his input, and Kirk turned on him, incredulous.

"Are you asking me to be grateful to the people who will watch me be killed on television? Are you asking me to enjoy my time in the place where I'll die?"

"No. I'm asking you to pretend." Pike got up and left the room with a nod to Altiva. Kirk shook his head.

"James?" Fairbanks asked, her tone tentative.

"No," he stated, and left the room through the opposite door to Pike.

Kirk moved swiftly down the corridor to his room, and locked the door behind him. He sat on the bed, set his head in his hands, and trembled for half an hour. As night fell, he kicked off his shoes, tossed his stuffy shirt across the room, and curled up on the sheets. After three hours of trying, sleep still evaded him, so he slipped from his room and padded into the main carriage. The whole train had a still air to it, with the lack of movement or sound from any passengers. Kirk felt a bit like an intruder, damaging the calm the train had strived to achieve.

To his surprise, there was a light on in the main carriage, and one of the armchairs was occupied. Pike barely glanced up as Kirk shuffled forwards in nothing but his trousers and socks. 

"Couldn't sleep?" Pike asked.

"No."

"Neither could I, my year," Pike confessed. 

"How did you do it? Win, I mean?" Kirk was genuinely curious, Pike wasn't big, or muscular, and his only defining feature to Kirk was that he couldn't imagine saying no to Pike, ever. 

"I made the right allies, and I was underestimated. People will underestimate you, Kirk, you're nothing special on the outside." Kirk opened his mouth to protest, but Pike cut him off. "You're strong, sure, but the careers are stronger, you're quick, but people are quicker. You shouldn't make it far in these games, but you will. Because inside, there's something else." Pike leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees.

"What use is having something great inside, if I won't last a day because I'm not strong enough?" Kirk argued.

"There's an anger in you, Kirk. You won't go down unless it's on your terms. Make the right allies, you'll go a long way."

"Allies, like who?" 

Pike leaned back again. "That's up to you to decide. But you need someone strong, and you need someone clever. Don't get indignant, you're a lumberjack. You may have muscles, but you've not got brains."

"How long have you been doing this?" Kirk asked, wondering if this was the same pep talk Pike gave all the tributes, watching them skip to their deaths and waiting for the next one.

"Eleven years. I haven't saved a single one." Pike's gaze fixed somewhere over Kirk's left shoulder, so Kirk thanked him and got up to return to his room. "You could change that," was the last thing Pike said before Kirk was gone.

The sun rose over the Capitol as the train drew to the end of its journey. Kirk stood by the window and tried not to gawp. The stories of glamour and modernity didn't even scratch the surface of the majesty of the Capitol. 

As they pulled into the station, Kirk was accosted by lurid colours and vibrant patterns, and by bright flashes from cameras of all shapes and sizes. Women had hair higher than their heels, and men wore makeup so thick that their original skin colour was undefinable. They stared at him, shouting and waving, so Kirk sucked in his trepidation and grinned, waving charmingly through the small porthole. The audience, if it were possible, whooped and screamed even louder.

Fairbanks stayed inside, hiding from the people. She was a shy creature, mused Kirk, shyness wouldn't get her anywhere in these games. The same thought struck him as had when she’d stood up on that stage, name having just been drawn. She showed weakness far too easily. Show your enemy weakness, and you will die. That much Kirk knew for certain.

They disembarked, leaving the station under heavy peacekeeper guard, and Kirk kept up his dazzling smile for the duration of their walk. 

They were steered into a metallic building, separated, and Altiva said goodbye.

"I'll see you both in the room later, good luck!" She gave Kirk an awkward hug, then left.

Kirk was handed over to a group of beauticians who worked tirelessly over him, barely speaking but passing tiny smiles at different points when something pleased them. When they'd finished, Kirk felt raw and prickly, his skin rubbed then moisturised, his eyebrows plucked to perfection, and his hair trimmed and styled elegantly. 

Next, he was passed on to his stylist, a tiny black woman called Roray, with short, spiky white hair and blue lips. She measured him carefully with her eyes, then stepped back. 

"Good news, kid." She was a stark contrast to Altiva with her deep, velvety tones. "I'm not dressing you as a tree this year."

Kirk had seen tribute after tribute ride their chariots through the stadium, keeping their heads high in spite of the ridiculous tree costumes they'd been crammed into. He breathed a slight sigh of relief at the revelation that he would not suffer a similar fate.

"We've got you a black outfit with vines coiling around it. It might sound stupid, but it's not, okay?" She didn't really set it up as a question, but Kirk nodded anyway. "Hey, don't look so stressed. You're a pretty boy, you may bag some sponsors if you smile at 'em right," she confided, patting his cheek and winking. "I'm sure you're quite the ladies’ man back home - use that here."

Kirk didn't tell her she couldn't be further from the truth, didn't tell her he had no friends, never mind significant others, back home, didn't tell her she was the first person to show any sort of care towards him for over four years. Kirk just grinned his charismatic grin, and Roray practically purred.

"Use that, pretty boy. Make sure everyone in the crowd wants you, and only you."

Bare minutes later, as Roray zipped up the back of his black top, he wondered if he'd be able to crack even a smirk. 

The trousers he wore were tight but not restrictive, and resembled leather, but were much softer and more supple. The top was thinner, but had stiff, flared sections on the shoulders, making him appear armoured and broader than he actually was. The vine section was actually rather clever, Kirk thought. At his left ankle, a rope of ivy began, twisting around his leg twice before crossing his waist, coiling around his body, and knotting on his right shoulder. As it climbed, it branched out, leaving finer strands of the vine to tangle and intertwine across his entire torso, finishing low at his front, but extending up past the back of his head, forming a shell around him. It almost looked regal.

While she was dressing him and making the finishing touches, Roray spoke to him in hushed tones, explaining the true significance of the outfit.

"The vines are symbolic," she began, "they seem weak and fine, like hairs." She flicked at the front of his outfit to highlight her point. "But try and snap one?" She tugged sharply. "And you'll find a core of steel. They're not breaking, sweetheart, and neither are you." She nodded, once, then led him over to join Fairbanks.

The other District Seven tribute shared Kirk's regal headpiece, but wore a dress of black fading to light grey at the hem as it flared elegantly. The vines on her outfit resembled veins, running separately down the front, back, and sides of her dress. Her blonde hair was heaped on her head, and subtle highlighting of her face matured her. Kirk paused, taking in her dress, and considered how much weaker the vines were on Fairbanks' dress, all alone and separated, compared to his interlocking network of strength. Pike's words about alliances came back to him, and Kirk considered.

They were loaded into the chariot, and Kirk carefully surveyed the opposition. 

The District Ones, a tall, muscular blond boy and a huge, square brunette, were tarted up in a suit and a flowing ballgown, a throwback to the old days, and an homage to luxury as it was. 

The Twos wore what looked like impenetrable armour with the impenetrable expressions worn on one sharp and narrow set of features and one broader, oriental face.

The Threes were dressed in electric blue, the sharp faced boy with the slanting eyebrows in a suit not dissimilar to Kirk's, but veined with white, while the dark skinned girl wore an incredibly tight catsuit veined in the same white. As he watched, the boy leaned over and whispered in the girl's ear, and she laughed. Kirk's eyes narrowed.

The Fours were dressed as merfolk, much to the distaste of the boy, who was ranting and raving at his stylist while his ginger compatriot braced her toned arms on the edge of the chariot, the tight set of her jaw displaying her discomfort.

In the Five chariot, there was only a boy. The girl was sat at the foot of it, enveloped in fold after fold of material, apparently having a breakdown. The boy knelt down and said something, squeezing her shoulder once. She looked up after him, pushing strands of her brown hair from her face and wiping away tears. He helped her into the chariot, then didn't speak.

The boy from Six was small, compared to everyone else, and was gnawing his fingers nervously. His district partner could not have seemed more indifferent, barking once at the boy, who flinched.

Kirk wanted to look around at Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, and Twelve, but didn't get the chance as the first chariot began to move and the anthem played.

"Remember, Jim," called Roray, "make every one of them feel like you only see them." Kirk nodded, and she reached up to squeeze his hand, then they were rolling.

Passing through the doors between the prep area and the stadium was like passing into a bubble of sound. The crowd roared their approval at every new chariot to enter the room, screaming at the outfits, the children, their reactions. Without thinking, Kirk grinned out upon the crowd, and began waving adoringly, trying to keep the utter disdain out of his expression, and keep it light and admiring. The crowd seemed to approve, as they joined the semicircle of chariots formed by the other districts.

As the president began to speak, Kirk just glazed over, afraid he would simply collapse otherwise, out of fear, anticipation, and an overdose of adrenaline. He barely came to enough to give a final parting wave to the crowd as they filed out of the stadium.

Roray helped him down from the high carriage, grinning broadly. "You did it, Jim! You were brilliant. Let me tell you, if I were a sponsor, I would pile all my money on your doorstep."

"Thanks, Roray. It was this outfit they went nuts for, and you know it." Kirk winked for good measure, and Roray wrapped him in a hug.

"We'll make a star of you yet, Jim Kirk," she murmured.

They headed to the training centre together, but Kirk couldn't get Roray's words out of his head. He didn't want to be a star, he didn't want to die, he didn't particularly want to kill anyone. But he supposed he could make the most of what he had.

Fairbanks said nothing, and didn't look up from her feet until they were in a crystal lift, heading to floor seven, when she looked at Kirk with a hard sort of confidence.

"How do you do it?" She spat, "Just wave and grin like that? They love you, they want you, and I was too busy trying not to throw up to even smile."

"I do it because I have to. If you want sponsors, learn to do it too," Kirk bit out. The lift opened, and he stalked straight down the corridor, cutting into his room to change for dinner, leaving a startled Fairbanks in the lift, makeup slightly smudged.

The moment Kirk reached his room, he reached for the remote and changed the window to show a woodsy scene. For several minutes, he stood there, just listening to his own breathing. When he felt like he could face them, he programmed the wardrobe to his liking and dressed, then admired himself in the full length mirror.

When he headed out for dinner, Fairbanks was already there, wearing a teal sleeveless shirt and dark trousers, along with Altiva, Pike, Roray, and Orrego, Fairbanks' stylist, a peculiar man with amber eyes and purple hair that defied gravity with its effortless waves.

As they ate, Pike read their itinerary in a world-weary tone.

"Tomorrow, we prep for training, then go down and train. We can prep for interviews tomorrow, which gives you plenty of time for your personal performance advice, when you show the game makers what you've got. The interviews are the day after tomorrow, when training is all over and you have your scores. Until this all starts, you get as much sleep as you can, and eat well. That doesn't mean eat loads, it just means don't let yourself get too hungry. You can have food sent up to your room."

Finished with the meal, Kirk felt heavy and weary, and retired to his room. It was proving remarkably difficult to ignore Fairbanks altogether, though Kirk was pleased with his 'cold shoulder' efforts. He figured he would get a repeat of the night on the train, exhausted but restless, and with this thought, he fell asleep fully dressed.

The next morning, Pike drummed on his door. "Wakey, wakey, Kirk. Time to get to work."

Kirk groaned but rolled from the bed obediently. He quickly threw on a simple shirt and loose trousers, then headed out for breakfast. He settled at the table, eyeing the stack of oddly shaped yet appealingly coloured food in front of him.

Roray leaned over. "They're waffles, try 'em."

Kirk cocked his head, but acquiesced, sliding one onto his plate. After his first bite, he made an appreciative noise and hooked another one. He caught Roray looking, and shrugged. 

"Keeping your strength up, right?" She asked, and Kirk nodded solemnly.

After they'd eaten, Pike took the two tributes to one side. "You've got training, now," he began, "This is important. You mustn't show your true strengths until you're in the room on your own. Some of them will go out to intimidate, showing off their finest skills, but you two aren't impressive enough to pull that off. You want allies, talk to people. Do things you're okay at, make yourself a contender, make yourself appealing to potential allies, but don't show your real highs."

Kirk mentally ruled out the axes. He could refrain, he was sure, then go wild with his favourite weapon in the personals. Fairbanks looked terrified, and Kirk assured himself he didn't care. 

Dressed in their full body suits with the seven on their backs, Kirk and Fairbanks travelled down the lift to the real training centre alone. Kirk said nothing.

When they entered, there were already a few people there, and Kirk abandoned Fairbanks in favour of a knife throwing station. He was a good thrower, he knew, but it was more a perfect place to survey the opposition without appearing to do so. 

As the room really began to fill up, Kirk examined the techniques of his opponents. 

The boy from Five, who had helped his weeping district partner up into the chariot, was hunched over something technical and full of wires. He appeared to be freehand ripping components from one half of the machine, before carefully sliding them into place in the other part. 

Kirk threw three knives, missing the bull by millimetres each time. He went to collect the weapons, satisfied that each blade would have resulted in a kill anyway. 

The boy from Four was swinging a trident around himself liberally, with the kind of smug grin on his face that deserved smacking. On deeper inspection, the guy wasn't actually doing anything of note, just showing off some simple party tricks. 

The boy from Ten seemed to have noticed this, and leaned against the wall to watch, a smirk quirking the corner of his mouth. Kirk said 'boy' in his head, but really meant man. Some back part of his brain supplied that this was McCoy - sticking to surnames, to dehumanise - the only eighteen year old in these, the forty seventh hunger games. He was tall, brunette, and powerful looking. Kirk took a mental note. 

The two Threes, the guy with the pointy ears and the girl with the dark skin had yet to approach a station, instead electing to watch, openly. For some reason, this really unnerved Kirk, especially when the boy turned his gaze on Kirk, his eyes drilling straight through all pretences.

Kirk looked away, throwing the knives again. They were more off target than before. He threw repeatedly until they were back on track, then turned slightly once more. 

The boy from Six had arrived, and looked horribly lost for a moment. He had tightly curled hair, and big eyes. Kirk twigged - McCoy's opposite, this was Chekov, the youngest in the games. He was only twelve, and he had to suffer this sick idea of entertainment. Kirk definitively shoved the pang of pity away from him as Chekov headed for a traps station.

Fairbanks was trying and failing to throw an axe, and Kirk had to restrain himself from going over and showing her how it's done. This was when the Careers arrived.

The guy from One was a big bruiser type, but he didn't dwarf his female compatriot; she was muscular, tall, and broad shouldered, with a square jaw. She headed straight for the weights and began hurling huge blocks further than Kirk could throw one half the size. He shuddered internally.

The girl from Two was smaller, resembling a rat with small features and a long nose. She approached Kirk, and he deferred the knives station to her, heading instead for swords. Before he got there, he realised it was occupied by the boy from Two, who drew a long, slightly curved sword from the rack. The simulation began, and he stabbed two animated assailants, and blocked a blind thrust before cutting his opponent off at the knees. He rolled forwards, thrusting up into the abdomen of a fourth attacker, rolling as the simulation went for his head, then leaping to his feet and kicking out at another. The simulated opponent sprawled, and Two stabbed it through the head, leaving the sword wedged in the training mat, swaying slightly, as the simulation ended. He left without another word.

Kirk got the feeling he was gaping, and made sure to pick his chin up off the floor before he too left.

Pike spoke to him honestly back in the room. Fairbanks had already had a similar conversation about her personal performance, and it was Kirk's turn.

"What can you do, Kirk?" Pike asked, straight away.

"I'm good with an axe. I'm used to swinging it, I can throw it, if there's an axe in the games, I'm okay."

"There'll be an axe in the training room. You've got to give them a good reason to put it in the arena with you, or you won't get one. Simple as that. Swing it, throw it, lodge it in something vaguely human shaped, then do something else, maybe throw some knives. They'll dismiss you, you'll be fine."

"What'll I get, Pike?" 

"Depends how well you pull it off, kid. But probably no more than an eight. You need to be charming in your interview if you want some sponsors." Pike leaned back.

"I can do that. Smash it up in the personals, be smooth in the interview?" Kirk quirked an eyebrow.

"Pretty much." 

Kirk thought he could live with that.

***

He sat alongside Fairbanks in the waiting room, watching as tribute after tribute went into the room. The boy from Two with the sword skills, Sulu, Kirk remembered, took only a few minutes, whereas the girl from Three, Uhura, took significantly longer. When his name was called, Kirk breathed out, slowly, through his nose, and headed into the room, trying to ignore the eyes which followed him through the door.

Barely bothering to take in his surroundings, Kirk introduced himself and headed straight for the axe. He stood calmly, whipping it around a few times as if at an unseen enemy, hefting it like it weighed nothing, and when he was sure he had their attention, he launched it across the room, embedding it between the metaphorical eyes of a training dummy. He then selected three knives and lodged them in a straight line across the same dummy's chest.

The game makers dismissed him, and Kirk wondered how he compared to the other tributes. He figured he would be pretty unremarkable, but his axe skills might boost him. Of course, Pike had said no more than an eight, so an eight would be good, Kirk decided.

He sat chatting to Roray when Fairbanks got back, and she slumped in a chair in sullen silence. Kirk resumed his conversation with minimal pause.

The little while they had to wait for the announcement of the scores passed in a relaxed fashion. They ate, determined to put on more weight before the games and the inevitable hunger, and passed the time discussing techniques in the arena. Pike was definitely pushing the allies thing.

Time for the scores came, and Kirk prepared for a long list of mental notes to roll in. Altiva was practically bouncing out of her chair, and Kirk rolled his eyes at her enthusiasm.

District One flashed up: its male tribute came away with a ten, and its female with an eight. That ten was to be expected from a Career, Pike assured them.

District Two's boy, Sulu, came away with an eleven for his swordsmanship, and Altiva had to fan herself to deal with the moment. The girl got an impressive nine.

The boy from Three, Spock, Kirk supplied, got a ten. Kirk was wary, he didn't know anything Spock was capable of, as he had shown precisely nothing in the training room. Uhura took an eight.

The Fours got a surprisingly average eight and seven, and Kirk was surprised. Four is often considered a Career District alongside One and Two.

The boy from Five who'd had his head in the wiring in training - Scott - got a six, the girl got a seven.

The twelve year old Chekov only managed a five, to his District partner's seven. Kirk felt the unwelcome pity in his stomach again.

It was Kirk's turn, then. He held his breath subconsciously as his face appeared, then the number eight beside it. The sigh that he released was heavy and relieved. Fairbanks pulled a seven, and Altiva was flapping about how wonderful it was, when Kirk really just wanted the other scores.

The two from Eight got fives, unsurprisingly, Kirk thought. They'd been unimpressive in the training centre.

Nine got a six and a seven.

McCoy, from ten, got an eight, and Kirk was left to wonder what exactly McCoy had done to get the same score as him; he was another who'd done very little in the training. The girl got six.

Eleven got a seven and a six.

Twelve got a six and a five.

Altiva squawked meaninglessly, and it was clear Pike was trying to shut her out, and Kirk did the same. He didn't realise he had fallen asleep until Pike kicked him in the shin.

"If you're tired, go get some sleep. You need your energy for the interviews tomorrow," he encouraged, so Kirk bid everyone goodnight and crashed again, this time not fully clothed.

The third day was to be taken over by interviews. They would have a bit of private tutoring from Pike, hopefully giving them a better idea of what to expect onstage. The interviews themselves were in the mid-morning to afternoon, and Kirk found himself, for the first time in his godforsaken journey to the games, nervous. The interviewer, Czech Trimmly, was the kind of guy who made everyone look desirable, but didn't make everyone comfortable. No, that was down to the tribute themselves.

Pike spent what felt like an age describing Kirk's approach to the interview. Kirk was beginning to glaze over, too wound up to concentrate, when Pike finished.

"So, charm the hell out of that crowd. By the time you're done, every one of them is going to want to sponsor you. They'll probably want to marry you, too. But that's the key. Turn on that big, vacant grin of yours-"

"It's not vacant-"

"It is vacant, and they'll love you. Now Roray wants to get you suited up, so scoot." Pike shooed him with one hand, but smiled to himself as Kirk disappeared.

Roray had his suit waiting for him when Kirk arrived. It was a dark red dinner jacket, with a black silk dress shirt and black suit trousers. The jacket was meticulously tailored, perfectly settling around Kirk's torso. He had done his shirt up right to the top, but Roray reached up and undid his two top buttons with a wink.

Kirk watched the others go first, unimpressed by the power show from District One's male and female candidates, gagging over the District Two girl's sickly sweetness, duly terrified of Sulu, and increasingly intimidated by Spock and Uhura. Scott from five seemed to be having a bit of fun, joking casually with Czech, lamenting over tiny things as if it were a conversation between two friends, catching up after a week's hard work. It was a good performance. Tiny Chekov was very enthusiastic, almost bouncing up and down when talking about the food, and the facilities; Czech could barely keep up, and the audience seemed to lap it up. Kirk would be surprised if he lasted a day in the arena.

Fairbanks went up onto the stage, and Kirk tried to remember how to breathe. Roray tugged at the edges of his jacket, making sure it sat just right.

"Knock yourself out, pretty boy," she whispered as he lined up.

"What if I freak? What if I can't say a single word?" Kirk panicked.

"You'll be fine. Just talk to Czech, he's an okay guy, pretend there's no audience." Roray smiled once more, then hugged him tight. Fairbanks left the stage beside him, offering a shy smile. "Do me proud, Jim." Roray gave him a push towards the entrance.

"District Seven's Jim Kirk!" Czech announced, and Kirk walked, filled with false bravado and flashing his hundred-watt smile, onto the stage.

He shook hands with Czech, a surprisingly normal looking man with tanned skin and a shock of blond hair, then took a seat, reclining casually into a comfortable position as Pike had suggested.

"So, Jim, are you enjoying your time in the Capitol so far?" Czech leaned forwards as if genuinely curious.

"Well, what's not to love?" Kirk grinned at the audience, feeling sick to the stomach. The crowd whooped. "The people are great, the food is fantastic, the beds-the beds are the best. I've never slept so well in my life." Kirk surveyed the people before him with their weird faces and stupid hair, trying to make eye contact with the ladies and smile.

"That's great," Czech laughed, then he lowered his voice, as if what he was about to say was totally confidential and just between the two of them. "You see, Jim, I heard that in the thirty eighth hunger games, your brother was a competitor." 

No. He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready, hadn't prepared for this to come up. There was no way he was going to disregard the actions of his brother in front of all of Panem.

"Yeah, Czech, he was."

"And he didn't make it through those games." It wasn't a question, it was a prod for a response. The crowd had fallen totally silent.

"No. He didn't." Kirk didn't know what to say. "I miss him."

The audience awwed, and Kirk felt like destroying each and every one of them.

"That's understandable. But will you take anything from what he did into your games?" 

"In life, I've taken a lot from the actions of my brother. He was my idol, and when I grew up, I wanted to be just like him." Kirk smiled once more onto the crowd, still making pitying sounds. Kirk was seized by an anger that these people, sitting and laughing at the tributes, had killed his brother.

"Will I take anything from his games?" he put as much levity behind his words as possible, pausing deliberately. "No. Because he died," Kirk spat, "and I'm not going to."

Czech was silent, then grinned at the crowd once more. "Ladies and gentlemen, Jim Kirk!" 

Kirk beamed like he enjoyed the applause, then left the stage. Smile dropping like a stone, he stalked through the back corridors, ignoring the shouts from his team, heading straight for the lift. He threw his jacket to the floor halfway there, not caring if anyone picked it up. His shirt, too, hit the floor. He hated this, he hated the whole games, hated the Capitol, and he couldn't wait to be as far from them as possible. 

He reached the lift and pivoted, jamming the button for floor seven. As the doors closed, he saw Roray pick up the discarded mass of his jacket, and he crossed his arms over his bare chest. Even she was only in it for the opportunity to display her outfits. As the lift rose, some of his anger burned off, but only some. They had no right, Kirk thought, to bring up his brother so casually. They had no idea how close the two had been. How could they bring it up?

Kirk slammed and locked his door, curling up in his bed and trying not to think of Sam, who had looked so much like Kirk did now when he had been stabbed in the back by a girl from District Four. He tried not to hear his mother's wails, and remember hiding, curled up in between the armchair and the wall, while his father tried to console her through his own tears.

He tried, but he failed.

Waking up early in the morning with the taste at the back of your throat which assures you you've been crying is an unpleasant enough experience. Then realising that that day is the first day of the Hunger Games is agony.

Kirk scraped himself from the bed and went to the bathroom, where he showered and washed away all the feelings that had broken free from inside him. When he thought he had it under control, he headed through to the main room feeling refreshed. There was a light on, and Pike sat underneath it with a book. Kirk wasn't surprised.

"Couldn't sleep?" Kirk asked.

"I can never sleep the night before a games." Pike didn't even look up.

"Why not? It's not like you're going in there," Kirk pointed out.

"No, but at least one of the kids I've trained is going to die in there, and I'm responsible." There was a fire in Pike's eyes, one Kirk had never expected to see. "It's not just you who feels these games, Kirk."

Fairbanks came out of her room, rubbing her eyes a little blearily, and smiled at Pike. She practically glared at Kirk, but sat down on Pike's other side in an armchair. They silently awaited the arrival of Altiva and with her, the beginning of the games.

***

Kirk climbed into the helicopter with a longing glance back to the training centre. Pike waved once, but stayed on the helipad. "Good luck, kid."

An armoured peacekeeper pressed a gun against his arm, and he was shot through with a brief spasm of pain. The rest was a blur.

"There's no thermal layer, but the suit itself is fairly substantial. It's not tundra or tropical. The other thing - these boots are for running on hard surfaces, so somewhere rocky or hard." Roray put her hands on his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. "Be safe, Jim. I'm rooting for you."

Kirk thought he might cry in that moment, for no conceivable reason. The moment really hit him, hard - this was it. No going back, he was stood on the podium that would take him to the arena.

"Thank you, Roray." Kirk piled a lot into the thank you, it was thanks for making him desirable to sponsors, thanks for sticking by him, and thanks for the faith she seemed to have in him. He really trusted her. He tried to make it a thank you, and a goodbye too. Despite everyone’s faith in him, despite his previous confidence, this morning he really couldn’t face the games with any hope of survival.

"You're welcome. Now go, and good luck." The pod sealed, and Kirk was alone.

There was a pause, and perfect silence enveloped him. For a split second, Kirk felt at peace. Then there was a metallic whir, and the podium began to rise.

Straight ahead was the cornucopia, across an expanse of stone that looked like the square in District Seven. Kirk looked around him, finding himself, of all places, in a rundown city. 

The buildings slumped slightly, weary at their plight, the streets coated with dust. Windows were broken, doors hung loose, and the whole city appeared totally barren. 

10

Kirk freaked. He wasn't expecting this arena, he'd expected a mountainside or forest, not a city.

9

Where was there to hide? Inside the buildings was the only option - Kirk made a mental note to stay on the bottom floor. Run up, and you get cornered.

8

Most of the other tributes seemed totally calm, but it could be an act. Kirk caught sight of McCoy's striking figure, planted, leaning slightly forward.

7

Sulu looked ready to tear someone to pieces, and was poised on his toes ready to run for the cornucopia. He needed a sword.

6

Spock looked impassive, as if he felt no emotion at all. Kirk thought he might have his eyes closed. Uhura stared straight at Spock.

5

Fairbanks looked like she might cry. 

4

Scott was gazing into the distance, unfocused, calculating.

3

The boy from District Four was baring his teeth. Kirk wondered if he knew how stupid he looked. 

2

Kirk scanned the cornucopia, and sure enough, there was an axe lying at the foot.

1

Kirk braced.

0

As if fired from a gun, Kirk bolted for the cornucopia. To his left, Spock skimmed by, grabbing a spear from the grass as he ran for the edge of the square. He disappeared into the alleys. Uhura followed straight behind him, a set of knives in one hand.

Sulu had his sword, and had taken to chasing a small girl, the one from Nine. As Kirk watched, he neatly removed her blonde head from her shoulders.

Kirk grabbed the axe and kept running, heading for the edge of the square. He heard a whistling sound and raised his heavy blade, deflecting a knife destined for his skull.

Unaware of what was happening, Kirk listened to the cannons as they began to fire. There were four in rapid succession. One was Sulu's kill, but Kirk hadn't seen the others.

The girl from twelve took a knife to the throat in front of him and her cannon fired. The girl from six had engaged Sulu in a sword fight. She lasted only seconds.

Another cannon, then the boy from eight planted himself in front of Kirk. Kirk threw his axe, embedding it in the chest of the boy. As he ran by, he grabbed the handle and tore it back free with a sickening crunch, before slipping into the edge of the city. He glanced over his shoulder once, and caught sight of Sulu taking a throwing knife to the leg. He spasmed and fell, attempting to crawl to the cover of the buildings. A pair of strong arms reached out and grabbed him, and Sulu seemed to struggle for a minute, but words were exchanged, and McCoy dragged Sulu out of sight.

Kirk grinned; Sulu was injured, and McCoy was alone. He saw an opportunity to take Sulu out, and offer McCoy the alliance he was planning, so he set off towards the last place he'd seen them, through back alleys and side streets, orientating himself by the square each time. 

The initial bloodbath was over, the cannons had stopped - for now. Kirk stopped flat against a wall when he heard voices.

"It's going to hurt like a bitch if you run, and it'll slow you down for a few days, but you'll live."

"Why did you do that? Why would you save me?" 

"Because I don't think you're like them, and I want you to help me. Here." As Kirk assumed McCoy was helping Sulu to his feet, he revealed himself. Sulu, arm slung around McCoy's neck, immediately went for his sword, cursing aloud.

"Woah, woah, I'm not going to kill anyone." Kirk didn't know when he decided to include Sulu in his alliance, but he did.

"What d'you want, then?" McCoy bit through gritted teeth.

"Allies. You fight like you mean it, you can clearly patch someone up pretty well." Kirk indicated each of them as he spoke.

"And what's in it for us?" Sulu asked.

"I don't kill you, right now, in your moment of weakness."

"You'll have to kill me anyway, at some point," Sulu pointed out.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Come with me." Kirk beckoned and walked away, exposing his back. It was a brave move, and they clearly recognised it as such, because Kirk could hear Sulu's lopsided shuffle behind him. At the first viable shelter, Kirk kicked the door in, and McCoy supported Sulu inside.

"We can stay the night here, in the morning he'll be okay walking, when the swelling's gone down," McCoy told Kirk.

"We need to be careful, if we're found here with Sulu injured, we could be in trouble." Kirk glanced up the street before tugging the door closed.

"Sulu?" McCoy asked.

"That's me. My surname, I mean." 

"I refer to the other tributes by surname, it's just a thing I do." Kirk wasn't going to tell them it made them easier to kill if they had no first name.

"Well you can refer to me as Bones. It's not my name, so you should be okay with it, but it's not my surname, either. I need to go back for my supplies, I left them to carry... Sulu," McCoy disappeared through the door.

"Who're the real danger players?" Kirk asked of Sulu, cutting straight to the chase. "Of the Career tributes, anyway?"

"Cassius, that's the guy from One, is good with a long sword. Last I saw, he had his hands on one, so that's not good. The guy from Four, don't know his name, seemed pretty nifty with that trident, too, so watch him." 

"Nifty with a trident, huh? I doubt he'll be up to much without this, then." Bones rejoined them, rucksack over one shoulder, wickedly sharp trident in the other hand.

"Nice work, Bones. Did you take it just to annoy him?" Kirk grinned.

"Nah, I'm not too bad with it myself. Annoying that idiot was just a bonus." Bones spun it once, almost proudly, before turning to wedge the door shut once more.

"You got any water in that pack?" Sulu asked.

"Why, you thirsty?" Bones slung the pack off his shoulder, glancing up at Sulu as he did so.

"No, but I will be. We all will be, and if we have none, we won't last long." Night was beginning to fall.

"When the sun comes up, we'll find some. Until then, I've got a couple of drops, no more. The pack is mainly medical supplies, which is awful convenient, seeing as I'm a doctor. However, no food, little water, no twine for traps, no blankets for warmth. Looks like we'll have to huddle, gentlemen."

Kirk was just volunteering to take first watch when the anthem played and the dead were projected into the sky.

The girl from Six was first, which meant all the Careers were alive and kicking. Next was Fairbanks.

Kirk didn't quite know how to react. He could still see her face as she trembled on the podium, terrified at what fate awaited her. That she didn't survive the first day upset him, in a hollow, removed sort of way; her family would have to watch the games with no hope of her survival. He hoped she died quickly, and felt little pain.

Both the tributes from Eight were dead, as well as the girl from Nine, the boy from Eleven, and both the tributes from Twelve. It must be awful, he thought, to lose both tributes on day one.

Bones and Sulu settled down on the stone floor, several metres separating them in spite of Bones' 'huddling' crack. Apparently saving someone's life didn't give you special privileges in these games. Kirk hugged his knees and grew still, looking blankly out of the window at the silent street. 

Sulu relieved him a few hours later, and Kirk was surprised at how quickly sleep enveloped him. 

When he woke, Sulu was lying with his back to Kirk, and Bones was cross legged, trident balanced easily over his lap. The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon. 

"Morning, Bones."

"We need water, Jim. My canteen's totally empty." Bones didn't even turn around.

"Okay." Kirk nudged Sulu with his knee. He was awake and alert instantly. "We've run out of water, if we go searching now, we may catch others napping. Quite literally. Can you walk?"

Sulu stood, tentatively, then crossed the room with only a slight limp. 

"It'll get worse as you tire. Let's go now, so we find water before that happens," Bones said, shortly.

They set off together, Bones in the lead and Sulu in the middle, weaving down street after street cautiously and quietly. The entire city seemed identical; with every street looking the same, they quickly became disorientated, and had to develop a system of navigating using the sun in order to avoid doubling back on themselves. After hours of walking, when Kirk's throat felt like sandpaper and it hurt to breathe, Bones flattened himself against the wall and gestured the other two should do the same. When Kirk heard the running water, he almost cried out with joy and went to step towards it, but Sulu pressed him back against the wall. Then Kirk heard it, over the sound of rushing and splashes: Voices.

One male one female, by the sound of things. Bones poked his head out, then brought it back around, knocking his skull against the wall. "It's that pointy eared bastard," he rasped, "and the girl from his district." 

"We'll have to go for it. Sulu, can you fight?" Kirk whispered.

"I'm not made of bone china. Let's do it."

Bones went first, wielding his trident, and Kirk followed, the sound of running feet the only sign that Sulu had followed. Spock had his spear held in front of him, and Uhura had her knives, but neither of them threw. Not yet.

Bones pulled up short, out of the thrusting range of Spock's spear, but close enough to hear what they had to say.

"You're outnumbered, and he's pretty good with a sword, so can we get some water?" Kirk asked, almost politely, he thought.

"If you can make me a bomb, we won't trouble you," Spock said levelly. 

"I'm no engineer, I'm a doctor," Bones rolled his eyes, "he's a swordsman, and as far as I can tell, he's useless."

"That's a bit harsh. I do have an axe, and I will put it in your head," Kirk assured.

"If we have an engineer, we can deprive the Career tributes of their supplies. We want to blow up their weapons, food, and general products, and we have all the components, but it won't blow without an engineer." Spock's voice didn't change tone.

"Let us drink, and we'll find an engineer." Kirk couldn't believe he was doing a deal with this guy, the guy who made the pit of his stomach churn with unease, but he was desperate. Spock nodded, and Bones leant forwards to fill his canteen in the fountain. Kirk and Sulu drank straight from the spring.

"District Five is the power district, we should look for either of them," Bones said between mouthfuls, "probably the boy, he seemed more capable in training."

"Scott. I made a note of his name, I thought he looked useful." Kirk remembered the loose wires in the training centre, and smirked. "I didn't realise how useful he could be, this place must be full of old wires and bits and pieces." 

"Indeed. But wires alone have no use if you have no one to assemble them. Find Scott. Uhura and I will be in the building to your left when you do." Spock promptly left with his female partner, leaving no chance of dispute.

Sulu looked up. "Remind me why we didn't kill them straight away, take the water and go?"

"It's in our interests to blow the Careers' supplies to hell and back, and those two can help us," Kirk stated, already turning to leave the small square and the fountain.

"This is the hunger games, Kirk. You do have to kill people," Bones snapped. "Not everyone wants to be your ally."

"I have killed," Kirk spun around, "and I'm not afraid to do so again. I can see a significant tactical advantage to be had, then we can deal with the dead weight."

Bones engaged Kirk in a stare down, with questions clearly written in his gaze. Kirk just put the fire inside him into his stare, and Bones looked away first.

"Right. Where would one find an engineer at this hour?"

Four hours later, they were hungry, fairly lost, and still engineer free. Sulu slumped by a wall, his leg starting to ache from constant hours on his feet. 

"How do we know he's not dead?" Sulu panted.

"He wasn't in the sky on day one, and we haven't had any canons yet today. He's still alive." Kirk stood watch at the end of the street, nerves jangling. "We should get inside a building, this is too exposed." 

Bones helped Sulu back to his feet, and followed Kirk around the corner, where he had disappeared inside another rickety building. Kirk moved around inside, searching the cupboards fruitlessly for food.

"There aren't any supplies here, but there is an upstairs..." Kirk glanced up. "There may be something up there of worth."

"Kirk, you should stay down here, if we're attacked, you can't run up without getting yourself cornered," Sulu said.

"Shout really loud at me if anyone comes in, and I'll come down these stairs as fast as I can. Okay?" Bones nodded reluctantly.

Kirk ascended cautiously and quietly, padding from step to step. The second floor appeared to be three rooms, separated by thick, dirt coloured walls, but without doors. There was only an archway between the three. 

Kirk searched the first one, and drew a blank. No food, no water, no weapons, no blankets. He sighed; there really were no supplies anywhere except in the cornucopia.

Suddenly, Kirk was aware of footsteps in the next room. Brandishing his axe, he inched through the arch.

Scott the engineer freaked when he saw Kirk and broke for the other door leading to the stairs. Kirk stuck out a leg and sent him sprawling.

"Please don't kill me, I really don't want to die right now, I have things to do," Scott begged.

"Shut up, Scotty." The Scotty just slipped out, unintended, then Kirk offered a hand, "I need you to do something for me, so I'm not going to kill you." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk saw movement in the door to the third room and hurled his axe on pure reaction. There was a yelp, and the unmistakable thud of someone landing flat on their backside. Kirk's axe nestled itself snugly in the wall.

"No, no, don't do that," Scotty protested, scrambling up from the floor, "he's not going to hurt you, he's not even armed."

"I'm afraid, Scotty, that that's not how these games work." Kirk stalked forwards in order to retrieve his axe and bury it in the skull of his unknown competition.

"I won't help you if you kill him." Scotty folded his arms and planted his feet.

Kirk stopped and narrowed his eyes, looking over his shoulder. "I don't think you're really in a great position to bargain."

"I do. Because you need me to do something, and I won't do it if you kill him."

Kirk sighed, then yanked his axe from the wall, looking down on Chekov, of all people.

"Looks like it's your lucky day, kid. Now scoot." Chekov scrambled to his feet and made to leave, but Scotty stopped him. 

"No, he's coming with me."

"Jesus, Scotty, I can't take dead weight along just because you can't stand the sight of blood."

"He's not dead weight. He can fit into spaces I could only dream of fitting in, and he's got a load of supplies because of it." It was only then that Kirk registered Chekov's pack, full almost to bursting.

"What've you got, Chekov?" Kirk pushed.

"I have food, and medicines, and two sleeping bags, and two canteens for water." Chekov smiled with an enthusiasm that didn't belong in the games. 

Kirk heard footsteps behind him, and turned. Bones had climbed the stairs behind Scotty, and Kirk raised a hand. "Bones, this is Scotty, and this is Chekov, and they're coming with us."

"Who's Chekov?"

"I'm Chekov." The twelve year old turned around with a grin.

"Jim, he's twelve. Are you out of your mind?" 

"No, Scotty's being difficult, and we need him. So Chekov comes too." Kirk breezed past them, remaining resolutely cheerful, and down the stairs, to where Sulu sat resting. "Time to go, Sulu."

"Do we have any more supplies?" Sulu asked, reaching for a hand up.

"We have an engineer, and the engineer's right hand man has supplies. So yes, sort of." Kirk kicked the door open, then turned back to Bones and Sulu. "Which way was it to the fountain?"

"I know that. It's left here, and down a little alley. I'll show you," Chekov chirped. Bones raised an eyebrow, but followed anyway.

Under Chekov's guidance, it only took two and a half hours to get back to the fountain, but by then, night was beginning to fall. 

Kirk held his axe aloft as they entered the rendezvous building, still not entirely confident that Spock wouldn't bury his spear in Kirk's exposed front. Spock revealed himself, unarmed, and Kirk introduced Scotty. For some reason, Kirk elected not to hand Chekov over to Spock. Maybe he doubted Spock would be as understanding as him, and would kill Chekov anyway, and despite all his arguments otherwise Kirk didn't want to be responsible for the death of a twelve year old.

Somehow, and Kirk couldn't remember any spoken decision to do so, he, Bones, Sulu, and Chekov ended up sleeping on the floor of Spock's base. Spock volunteered for first watch, but Kirk couldn't sleep. He put it down to being confident that Spock would kill him, and nothing else.

He shuffled from the corner he'd been curled in, and sat down beside Spock.

"Your brother took part in the thirty sixth hunger games." It wasn't a question.

"Why do people keep bringing this up? It's not something I like to talk about, okay?"

"I simply wish to ask you a question." Spock still hadn't made eye contact with him.

"Ask, then. Sam was one of the last three in the arena, then he died. It's a fun story, I know." Kirk tried to keep the bitterness from his tone, but it came through, loud and clear.

Spock finally turned to look at him, something in his eyes Kirk hadn't seen before. Something like care. "How did it feel to watch him compete? I am not referring to his death, rather his life within the arena."

Kirk opened up a little. "It was awful. And it got worse as it progressed, when I knew people would be targeting him specifically. When he died, it was the climax of events, but watching him survive by a hair time after time? It was sickening."

Spock blinked, and his voice quavered a little. "I have a sister. She's six years old, and if I die, she may not remember me when she's grown."

"Spock, I was seven, and there's no way I'll forget Sam - and I don't mean the him I saw fight, and kill, I mean the him from home, who taught me to climb trees, and once kicked a door in because he thought I was hurt."

Spock smiled, a mere twitch of the lips, and was silent for a while. "Why did you save the twelve year old?" He asked, suddenly.

"I thought he could be useful, he had supplies-"

"If you'd killed him, the supplies would be yours. You did not have to help Uhura and me, you could have left the fountain and not come back. Why are you here, Kirk?"

Kirk was silent. "Because I value people, and I value their skills."

"That attitude only increases the likelihood of your imminent death."

"Yes, but I'll die knowing I did the right thing." At this statement, a strange look crossed Spock’s face, as though he was trying to work out a difficult maths problem. The expression cleared quickly, but he offered no reply, the conversation obviously over. Kirk let out a small huff of a sigh and stood. "I'll wake Sulu, he can take over."

Spock nodded, and Kirk crossed to Sulu. He shook his shoulder, speaking his name softly to avoid waking the others and Sulu, still a product of his District Two training, was instantly awake and alert. Kirk crouched there long enough to see Sulu cross to Spock and take up a watch position, then curled up on the floor and fell into sleep. It came easier this time, but wasn't restful.

Kirk woke early, a quick glance across the room revealing Sulu and Spock’s sleeping forms, clearly having been relieved at some point during the night by Bones, who now sat straight and silent by the window. Footsteps quiet, Kirk crossed the room and sat by Bones' side as the sun rose. Neither of them spoke, but it wasn't a tense sort of silence. In fact, they were both comfortable with the other's presence, despite districts of space between them and the certainty of how their brief comradeship must end.

Scotty woke next, stirring loudly into life, and went straight to the other room with no more than a "good morning" sent their way. As he passed, Scotty nudged Chekov awake.

Chekov disappeared after Scotty, and Kirk could hear their hushed conversation. He wondered if they were discussing how to kill them all, but given their total lack of weapons, Kirk thought it more likely they were discussing Spock's bomb.

When Spock woke up, he didn't even greet Kirk or Bones, just went through to Scotty and Chekov, adding his undertones to their conversation. Kirk woke Sulu as he had the night before, but had no idea how Uhura would react, so left her sleeping.

"We could go, now," Sulu suggested in a low voice, "cut our losses and leave. Then we don't have to watch our backs every second of every day."

"Actually, we do. They could hunt us down, and I don't doubt that Spock would, just to prove a point," Bones said.

Sulu hesitated. "I don't trust any one of them, except Chekov, and I only trust him because I don't think he knows how to kill someone."

"I agree, I wouldn’t turn my back on a single one of them. But at the moment, they’re useful to us. If this comes off, then we split, but we have to take the Careers out of the game. For now, it suits us to be here, so we stay." Kirk paused, then nodded his agreement, and Sulu did too, after a moment, resolution plain.

When Uhura woke, the three allies joined Spock and the others in the back. In the middle of the dim room was a table sporting about an inch of dust. One side of the table had less dust and a series of smudges made by hands brushing the surface. On this clean patch was a tangle of wires and sheets of metal about the size of Kirk's hand. Scotty was prodding at it still, occasionally twisting something this way or that, but he declared it done within a minute of their arrival.

"Now we need to plant it," Scotty finished, looking up from his work. "Where are they keeping all their supplies?"

"The second floor of a three storey building on the west edge of the square housing the cornucopia." Spock reeled off the location without flinching.

"Someone's done their research," Bones smirked. Spock just glared at him, and Bones made eye contact right back. Neither flinched, until Spock was forced to look away by a cleared throat and inquiry from Scotty.

"Is that the one with the double doors, one missing?" Scotty asked of Spock.

"Indeed."

"There's a complex ventilation system in that tower. I saw the external vents as I ran from the cornucopia. I don't know how much of it has buckled or caved in, but if I'm right about the system, there will definitely be a straight one from the back wall to the front, passing under the second floor." Scotty gestured with his hands as he spoke, looking up at the end of his speech.

"That's a vent, Scotty. Who of us is small enough to fit in one of them?" Kirk raised his eyebrows.

"I can." Kirk had almost forgotten Chekov was in the room, but he spoke up for himself.

"See, not dead weight." Scotty stared pointedly at Kirk, before patting Chekov on the back with a smile. "No point in wasting time. Let's do it." 

It didn’t take them long to collect their few supplies, and the walk was short, so they arrived long before the sun reached its zenith. As they reached the square where the cornucopia stood, all Kirk could think was that the office block was taller than he remembered. He raised an incredulous eyebrow when Scotty indicated the vent they were aiming for.

"You're having a laugh." Sulu voiced Kirk's thoughts perfectly.

"Nope. That's the one that runs through the second storey floor." Scotty folded his arms.

"Okay," Chekov said, holding out his hand for the bomb. Spock had briefed him in how to arm it on the way over, and explained in no uncertain terms that once armed, he needed to be out of the building in three minutes.

If he didn't get out... There wouldn't be much of a body for his family to burn.

The Careers were out hunting, leaving only the boy from Four as a semi guard in the square. The idiot couldn't even see the back of the building, but the six of them took cover in a building two blocks away just in case. From there, Kirk watched Chekov from a third floor window. It wasn’t the safest place he’d hidden during the course of the games, but he figured he didn’t have much to worry about given what was about to go down. As distractions went, this was a pretty good one. 

The small figure climbed onto a first floor window ledge, then lunged up for a handhold, walking his feet up so he could leap for another grip. Chekov practically bounced up the wall, barely pausing long enough to look unsteady. Reaching the vent entrance almost shockingly quickly, he prised off the grille and glanced over his shoulder, flicking it into a sandy tuft of grass where it landed with barely a sound. 

He twisted himself into the tight space, pushing the bomb ahead of him then following it, arms first. There wasn't enough space to turn around, Kirk doubted there was even enough space for Chekov to bring his arms back to his sides. Biting back irrational claustrophobia – it wasn’t like he was even in the vent - Kirk waited. 

Two minutes passed slowly, each second feeling like an hour, and Kirk started to get tense, even though he knew there would probably be another two minutes before Chekov reappeared.

Three minutes later, there was no sign of Chekov, and the bomb hadn't gone off. Kirk schooled his concern into an expressionless mask, not wanting his allies to gain any advantage over him, no matter the outcome of their endeavour. Seconds inched past. Kirk stopped breathing.

At that moment, Chekov reappeared at the vent entrance and threw himself out, hopping to the first floor window and then the ground, breaking into a sprint as he landed. 

Then the building erupted.

The whole building. The windows exploded outwards as a fireball consumed the second floor, taking with it the first and third floors. The building folded in on itself, any structure twisted into nothingness. Each floor collapsed into the next, and then a secondary explosion threw the resulting mess of brick and masonry up into the air, like some sort of stonework fountain. Kirk gaped as the rubble began to rain down on the surrounding area, pockmarking the neighbouring buildings with bullet-like pellets of debris.

"A small bomb, you said," Bones turned to Spock, when he’d managed to get his jaw under control, "It'll take out the supplies, you said." It was obvious that he wasn't angry, though.

"Did Chekov make it out okay?" Scotty asked, concern evident in his tone.

"Does it matter if he didn't? It'll save us having to kill him later," Sulu reasoned, though he couldn’t keep a slight hint of regret from pervading the cold logic of the sentence.

"He got out," Kirk said, "I saw him. But he wasn't far away when it went up. If he survived the initial bang, he could still have been burned or hit with flying rocks."

"I didn't hear a cannon, though," Uhura shared, "which means he's alive, but the boy from Four is too."

There was a clattering from the bottom floor, and everyone in the room drew their weapons, but it was only Chekov who staggered up the stairs, a long gash over his right eye weeping blood down his face.

"That was amazing!" Chekov grinned.

Kirk laughed. "Who plants a bomb, blows himself up, whacks their head open and comes back saying "that was amazing"?"

"I planted the bomb, and I armed it all fine, but as I was backing up I caught my foot in some warped metal, and I was stuck. The vent was so tight it was pressing on my front and back the whole time, so I kicked and kicked to free my leg, then I was wriggling back and I could see the little bomb ticking away. I jumped out the vent and nearly twisted my ankle, but I started running because I had only seconds and I dived behind a building but the explosion was so hot, and a strip of metal sliced right across my face. Amazing!" Kirk couldn't help but laugh again.

Bones just rolled his eyes. "Come here and I'll fix that." He gestured to Chekov's cut, and Chekov obeyed.

Spock declared the mission a success, and they shared around some dried meat from Chekov's pack to celebrate. Only Kirk looked back over the smouldering remains of the tower block. The Careers were back, drawn by the explosion - the huge District One girl and her male compatriot, and the wiry District Two girl, and they were picking through the rubble for any remains of their supplies. Kirk knew they wouldn't find anything. The boy from District Four was gone.

Kirk didn't sleep that night. They decided to stay in that building for the night rather than risk moving on with the Careers so close, so they were settled on the ground floor for security.

It'd been two days since the last death and though the bombing had to have been good television, Kirk knew the game makers would be getting twitchy, thirsty for actual blood to be spilt.

If no one died by tomorrow, there would be hell.

Bones had been on watch in the front room, and he came back into their sleeping area while it was still dark, though Kirk could still see the urgency with which his shadowy figure moved. With no preamble he began waking them up.

"What's happening?" Kirk hissed.

"There's two girls in the street, they're heading this way. We need to move."

Kirk didn't hesitate, and started helping Bones wake them all. As Spock came alert under Kirk's hands, he snapped his head around at the unmistakeable sound of the door being knocked in.

Uhura flattened herself against the wall beside the door to the back room, the others falling dead silent and adopting defensive positions. Scotty half stepped in front of Chekov, the pair of them still unarmed, and Kirk planted himself, feet apart, ready for the fight.

The door exploded inwards, and Uhura stepped out, brandishing her knives. She slashed the first girl through the door, District Four, Kirk supplied, but the girl must have been expecting the move as her only response was to bury her sword up to the hilt in Uhura's chest. Kirk got a great view of the tip of the sword protruding gorily from Uhura's back before Four withdrew it.

The cannon fired before Uhura hit the floor. 

"Nyota!" Spock howled, launching his spear through the neck of Four, killing her stone dead before she knew what had hit her. Spock flew forward, yanking the spear from Four's throat and ramming it through the ribcage of the girl from Five, who'd been bringing up the rear.

Two more cannons fired, and there was quiet.

Spock fell beside Uhura, touching the wound with featherlight fingers. He shook slightly, breathing hard, the uncontrollable rage of his attack gone, leaving only emptiness.

"Spock, she's gone. We have to leave. If those two could find us, who else can?" Bones reasoned. Scotty retrieved Spock's spear, wincing at the crunch of bone as it left Five's ribs. He gently placed it by Spock's side, backing away out of respect. 

Spock closed Uhura's eyes, then coiled his fingers around the spear, anger and grief seeming to subside into something much more controlled and dangerous. "Let's go. We don't want to risk another attack this morning." His voice was hollow, but they followed as he left via the back of the building. Scotty paused for a moment at the back of the group, then squatted and slid Uhura's four knives from her belt to take with him.

They walked in tense silence until the sun rose, weaving through the empty streets in search of another place to stay. The arena was truly a work of genius. The buildings gave no clear line of sight, so every member of the group was constantly alert and nervous, ready for an attack at every corner. The bare walls of the streets made every tiny sound echo wildly, and the oppressive silence seemed to magnify it thousand fold. Kirk could just imagine the audience on the edge of their seats as the cameras followed their progress.  
The block they chose was a small, squat structure, sporting severely battered walls and shattered windows. The inside was no better than outside, but it would do.

Spock insisted on sitting alone by the door, to keep guard, or so he said. Kirk didn't understand what had been between him and Uhura, but he knew they were close, and understood Spock's desire for solitude.

Though he would never say aloud, Kirk was secretly glad of Uhura's death, as it was one fewer person he didn't trust in the group and another death to placate the game makers. With a bit of luck, it would be another day or so before they unleashed a disaster upon the tributes designed to shove them straight into the paths of the Careers.

With Spock keeping watch, the rest of them crowded into the block’s main room. With all of them feeling pretty well rested for this stage in the games, they decided to take stock of their supplies and augment them as much as possible, ready for what surely was building to the climax of the games.

"We're running short of food." Scotty had finished taking inventory of what supplies they had. "And the water will probably last a day between us."

"Right," Kirk decided to take charge, "Sulu, you stay here with Spock and guard what we do have. Bones, Scotty, Chekov and I will go and look for supplies together." Five heads nodded at him with varying levels of enthusiasm. "Right then, let's go."

Bones scooped up his trident, and Kirk his axe, then they left with no further preamble. Scotty offered Chekov one of his knives as they walked, but Chekov shook his head. "I'd only cut myself. I am better off arming myself when the danger is right there and I can attack it, instead of carrying a sharp object in my pockets." He smiled as he said it, and Kirk felt bad that such a nice kid had ended up in such an awful situation.

They accessed the first building they fancied, a tall, thin office block. The whole thing was totally empty, but Chekov still bounced about with his unquenchable enthusiasm. The next few buildings were much the same, and they were all beginning to get tired and frustrated under the burning sun.

In the fifth building they chose, Bones stormed through the large main room, glaring at all the pointedly empty corners.

"This is ridiculous," he fumed, "the whole damned arena is empty of supplies. They're punishing us for blowing up the Careers' things."

Pausing in the middle of the room, Bones slammed his trident down on the floor in anger, producing a hollow knocking sound. Chekov brightened again, not that he'd really dimmed in the first place.

"Do that again," he chirped, "do the knocking again." Bones did so. "A cellar! There's a cellar, just like my uncle has in District Six!" 

Chekov fell to his knees and patted at the ground, leaving Bones stood, confused, in the middle of the room. Chekov shooed him out of the way, and Bones acquiesced, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

After two minutes of patting and shuffling, Chekov beckoned Kirk over. "See the little dips?" Kirk nodded. "Put your fingers in there and pull hard." He gave Bones the same instruction at the other side, and together they heaved the stone tile away.

Inside was an abundance of tinned fruit and meats, solid food supplies to last all of them for a few days. If they were sensible, there was enough to last them a few weeks. Kirk gave a huge grin.

"Well done, Chekov. Fill your pack." 

They slipped down into the cellar, which was dark and dank but held more character and feeling than the rest of the arena combined. 

They ate as much of the food as they could where they were, and filled Chekov's pack until it was bulging at the seams, and in spite of this they still had to leave some in the hole in the ground. Kirk and Bones replaced the tile so other tributes wouldn't find the supplies easily, and Scotty and Chekov scooped up some sand from outside to dust over the cracks to make the tile seem undisturbed.

They were about to head back when a cannon fired. Chekov flinched, and Kirk looked up as if the heavens would tell him who was dead. He knew he would have to wait until night for that, but darkness was creeping in.

They hurried back after that, not having any need for more supplies, and were relieved to find Spock and Sulu in one piece where they had left them. 

"Who died?" Sulu asked, looking each of them up and down as they returned like he was searching for injuries. 

"We don't know," Scotty supplied, "Here's hoping it was one of the Careers?"

It wasn't one of the Careers. They watched the sky that night, and Uhura's face was the first one they showed. After that came the girl from Eleven, who Kirk had never pretended to know, and didn't really even recognise. He was impressed she'd made it this far.

Given the events of the previous night, it was difficult to find sleep, but Kirk was one of the first to go. He put it down to little sleep over the last few days, combined with a hard day's work.

The next day brought high tensions, with no one quite knowing where they stood with the others. The threat of death was there, but no one capitalised. No one wanted to make the first move.

It was about midday when Bones confessed he was out of water. Chekov, too, was running short. The group, having few other choices, elected to go back to the fountain where they had got their supplies until then.

The six of them decided, without much discussion, to make the trip to the spring together, not wanting to stay in the same building for long. The last time they'd done that, Uhura had paid the price. 

Scotty agreed to take the lead, armed now with a knife, with Chekov behind him. Kirk brought up the rear despite Spock's offer to do so, not quite comfortable exposing his back to an uncertain ally.

They travelled slowly and mostly in silence, other than the occasional whispered alert or aborted false alarm. The sun coming down too fast for anyone’s liking, Chekov gestured that Scotty should cut down an alley up ahead, shortening their trip, and Scotty, nodding in assent, paused to assess the danger. After that, Kirk was unsure what exactly happened.

He saw the flash of red brown hair as the girl from District Ten darted out from the alley in front of Scotty, saw her hit out at him and him flail to defend himself, taken by surprise and clearly not comfortable enough with the knife in his hand to strike quickly or effectively. Taking in all six of them, the girl’s eyes widened and she bolted another way, Sulu's throwing knife missing its mark and burying itself in her shoulder instead of her spine. She yelped, but managed to escape a second blade by vanishing down another narrow alley.

Bones had moved to Scotty's side the moment the girl had stuck, trusting the others to protect him and allow him to do his job. He stood there now, shocked, still with his back to Kirk. Bones grabbed Scotty’s elbow, helped him to a doorway and sat him down, Scotty’s knees almost buckling with every step. Kirk could see the blood from metres away. Ten had left her mark. 

Chekov crumpled by Scotty's side, eyes wide and watery, and Bones made eye contact with Kirk over Chekov's bowed back. 

Bones gave one tiny shake of his head, and Kirk knew Scotty was gone. 

Chekov was crying softly now, and begging Scotty to stay with him, to stay awake, begging Bones to help him, somehow. Scotty slumped as if tired. He had one hand held to his stomach, crimson seeping inexorably through his fingers, but he used the other to reach out and squeeze Chekov's shoulder.

"You'll be okay, lad. Don't worry about me," he whispered. Chekov placed his hand over Scotty's on his shoulder, holding tight, crying uncontrollably now.

Scotty forced a small smile through his pain, meeting Chekov’s gaze. He lived long enough to see Chekov return his smile, a promise to a dying man. Then all the light left his eyes, and he died. 

Kirk felt his heart twinge, the first flicker of emotion he had felt since Fairbanks. Scotty was a simple guy, brash in his way but showing a fierce protective streak whenever Chekov was threatened which Kirk couldn’t help but admire. He'd taken the twelve year old under his wing, and now Chekov was floundering without his guardian.

The slight figure bowed his head towards Scotty, still clutching his hand to his shoulder, tears dripping off his nose. Bones stood in order to give him some privacy in his mourning, and crossed to Kirk.

"There was nothing to be done. The wound was too deep. I couldn't save him," he justified, passing his trident from hand to hand.

"Bones, he had to die at some point. I wish it was otherwise, but it isn’t. So don't worry about it, there was nothing you could have done," Kirk consoled.

"That's the problem, though, Jim. You want to win these games, so when do you want me to die?"

"I don't want you to die, Bones." Kirk only realised the truth in his words as they left his mouth. Bones had been there from the start, he was a constant in Kirk's calculations, and he had never imagined the point of Bones' death.

The eighteen year old half-raised a sceptical eyebrow, but seemed to realise the truth in Kirk’s tone and froze, stopped in his tracks. He didn’t move for the tiniest fraction of a second, then seemed to recover and made to retort before Sulu cut him off.

"Chekov, don't!" Kirk whirled in time to see Chekov sprinting in pursuit of the Ten girl, one of Scotty's knives curled in his small left hand.

Kirk cursed. "What's up, Jim?" Bones asked, parroting Kirk's earlier words. "He had to die at some point." His tone was sarcastic, mocking Kirk, but there was a note of anger behind it too. Kirk knew that Bones wasn’t angry at him, but at the twisted laws which had brought them all together.

"Dammit, Bones, I quite liked him, okay? He was sweet. I liked Scotty too, but what will my pity get him now?" His angry outburst stunned the other three into silence. He was breathing heavily, barely able to contain his fury that all bar one of them would die, best case scenario. It took him three breaths to recover himself. "We’re not going to make the stream before nightfall, now. Let's find somewhere to stay." If the others were surprised at his sudden change of tack, they were good enough not to show it.

They ended up in the house opposite the place where Scotty had died, not wanting to spend too long exposed in the half-light. Heading through to the relative safety of the back, they occupied firmly separate parts of the room. Kirk had his knees drawn up and his head tilted to one side, Spock sat cross legged, balanced as always. Sulu and Bones were stood, Bones using his trident almost as a crutch, leaning on it casually, Sulu using the windowsill for this purpose. Each of them completely different in their posture, but equally tense, equally poised for what they knew must come.

When the cannon fired, Kirk breathed out. 

"I liked him too, Jim," Bones murmured, not turning his head. Sulu hummed in agreement, and Spock was silent.

Their moment of communal mourning was shattered, however, when there was a sudden crash from the front of the house. Kirk, instantly alert, grabbed his axe and leapt to his feet. After the initial sound, there was a thud, and the sound of someone sliding down a wall, followed by a long period of silence. Still holding his axe in a defensive manner, Kirk poked his head through the door to the front room, and there, curled up in the corner, was Chekov.

"Chekov," Kirk hissed, muffling his shock for a better moment, "Come through here so no one can see you."

Chekov didn't respond, so Kirk stalked over, tread cautious. The smaller boy was very much alive, but with blood on his hands and death in his eyes. The bright light that brought his bubbly enthusiasm was gone, and gone for good. Kirk lowered his axe and helped him to his feet, almost carrying him into the back room. Chekov could only manage to move in very small steps, robotically, and curled back up in silence the moment Kirk released him. Four pairs of eyes watched him, took in his grief, unable to offer any words of comfort or solace.

That night, Scotty's face smiled from the inky skies, followed by the girl from Ten. Whatever had happened, Scotty had been avenged, but Chekov’s actions seemed to have broken him inside.

More than ever, Kirk was sickened by the games. During his watch, gazing into an empty street, all he could think of was the empty look in the twelve year old’s eyes, the eternal stare of death. His watch was halfway through, his bitterness swirling around his mind, when Spock drew up next to him. Together they stood, no words exchanged for a long time, together in their resentment. It was Spock who finally broke the silence.

"The games have broken him." It was a statement, something to precede a larger point. "He won't recover."

"No, what happened today's changed him as a person. If he survives this, his own mother won't recognise him."

"My sister would never survive in here. Even when she is of age, she will never be strong enough to beat the Careers, and I can't imagine watching her die."

"She doesn't want to watch you die, either. No one cares about me, if I go tomorrow, no one will cry. I don't even have Chekov like Scotty did. I'll disappear, and be forgotten in minutes." Kirk sighed and tilted his head forwards until his chin rested on his chest.

"We would notice," Spock said, softly. 

Kirk snorted. "You'd only notice because you'd have to pull your spear out of me. I know you don't like me, I know you don't trust me, and I don't care, as long as you don't pretend otherwise," Kirk smirked. "Are you taking over?" Spock seemed slightly stunned, but nodded. "I'll see you in the morning."

Kirk slept fitfully.

The next day, they set off for the stream, the target which Scotty had never managed to reach. They drank their fill, the water satisfying their physical needs but doing nothing to fill the empty hole left by the absence of Scotty’s cheerful banter, and Chekov’s chipper retorts. It was as though the events of the previous day had sharpened Uhura’s loss, too; at the time, Kirk had been able to view her as a competitor, one more worry off the list, but as time went on, Kirk was struggling to maintain his distance. He started to miss her quiet, deadly presence, and to wonder who she had waiting for her to come home. She had been a child, just like the rest of them, barely fifteen years old. Younger than Kirk himself, younger than Sam had been when he’d died. And slowly, Kirk felt his pain morph into burning anger, just like it had after Sam’s death all those years ago. These people, these teenagers, these children, he’d made them his friends. For better or worse, they were good people. Strong willed, capable individuals, with skills which complemented and augmented each other. Scotty’s uncontrolled brilliance married with Spock’s ruthless genius, Uhura and Sulu’s deadly efficiency, Chekov’s irrepressible drive, and Bones’ dark mood hiding a genuinely caring personality. Jim had been the one to pull them together. In another time, in another life, they would have been the greatest of crews. But instead, all that talent, that perfect melting pot of minds and personalities, would be wasted. And in that moment, Jim Kirk made a decision. That no matter what, it was going to be a member of his crew who walked out of here alive.

They holed up in a building near to the stream. It was a risk, granted, but there was a greater one in moving about all of the time, exposing themselves. They’d got nervous after Uhura, darting around like nervous rabbits, but it was about time they stopped. Their alliance was strong, they should be the ones hunting down the others. And so they waited, waited for someone’s need to become too great, for them to risk the stream. And all throughout it, throughout the strategy meeting when they decided their course of action, and the fruitless two-day-long wait which ensued, Chekov spoke not a word.

It was near to midnight on the first day when Bones joined Kirk on his watch at the window. Kirk had curled himself on the window ledge, hidden in the shadow cast by the frame and axe close to hand, never quite able to relax.

Bones settled opposite Kirk, who looked up to acknowledge him but otherwise kept his eyes trained on the street. Kirk knew that Bones had come to say something, but he also knew that if he waited long enough it would come out in the end. There was no need to start the conversation.

Sure enough, before long, Bones opened his mouth to speak.

“You know, Jim,” he began, tone thoughtful, “We said we’d leave after we’d blown the supplies. You, me, and Sulu. We would have made a good alliance.”

Kirk let out a huff of breath. “Yes, you’re right. Somehow, though, the opportunity to leave never presented itself.”

“No. That’s true. And do you know what, Jim?” Bones looked directly at him as he spoke. “I wouldn’t have traded this for the world. This alliance… hell, this friendship. Every single one of the people I have been allied with has proven themselves to be a damned good person. And that? That’s worth dying for.”

Bones seemed to collect himself for a moment, following his outburst. Then he did the last thing Kirk had ever imagined him doing. He offered him his hand.

“Jim Kirk, it has been an absolute pleasure to know you.”

Kirk looked down at Bones’ hand, caught in the moonlight, and caught it with his own. They shook once, with a smile.

“Leonard McCoy, the pleasure was all mine.” Kirk laughed at the expression on Bones’ face. “What, you thought I didn’t know your name? You always stood out to me, Bones, from the moment you walked into the training centre. In another life, I think, we would have been very good friends.”

“The best,” was Bones’ only reply, and Kirk could do nothing but agree.

Just before nightfall on their eighth day in the arena, a cannon fired, signalling the death of the boy from Nine by the hands of the Careers. It also signalled to Kirk that the endgame was beginning. 

There remained two alliances: the Careers, including the boy from Four, assuming he hadn't gone rogue, and theirs. However, after the bombing, Four had been nowhere to be seen, so he was an unknown. 

The sun rose on the ninth day alongside a feeling of restlessness inside Kirk, the feeling that they couldn't stick around for much longer, and they had to move on. There was no more time for waiting to see if people showed up. It was long past time to go on the offensive.

"Gather your things," he told the others, We've been here too long, it's time to go."

No one answered, but Bones rolled his trident into his hand, Spock picked up his spear, and Sulu grabbed Bones' pack. Chekov had been stood silently by the door for an hour already.

The streets were quiet but for a slight wind, and Kirk was nervous. He felt jumpy and on edge the whole walk, unable to concentrate on any one thing. Chekov led them with unwavering steps, Kirk beside him.

"Chekov?" Kirk asked.

Chekov just looked at him, still mute.

"I'm sorry," Kirk said, and he wasn't just referring to Scotty. He referred to the injustice of Chekov's forced participation in the games before he even knew the world, and how at the age of twelve, he knew of death and loss and killing, all at the merciless hands of the Capitol.

Chekov measured him with his eyes, then nodded, speaking for the first time since Scotty’s death. "None of it is your fault, Kirk, but I should thank you anyway, for everything you've done for me in these games." 

Suddenly, Bones was beside them. "Get down!" He yelled, launching his trident through the air and into the boy from Four, concealed in a doorway, just as he loosed an arrow from his bow.

Two cannons sounded, and Chekov crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, the fletches of the arrow protruding from his throat. Kirk passed a hand over his face, controlling the emotions threatening to overflow. He assured himself that Chekov had felt no pain.

Bones retrieved his trident, a grim expression on his face. He took one look at Chekov, and ran a hand down his face, closing his eyes. He spared no thought for Four.

Kirk still crouched beside the dead boy. Bones put a hand on his shoulder.

“He would have felt nothing.” Still, Kirk did not move. “You couldn’t have done anything, Jim. And he was dead already. He’s been dead since we lost Scotty.”

Finally, Kirk stretched upwards from his crouched position and, with a final look back at Chekov, moved on with the few remaining members of their group.

Spock took point, Sulu behind him, and they walked on as if nothing had happened, as if they weren't another man down, as if they had totally missed the brutal murder of a twelve year old a few metres back.

Kirk felt sick. He wanted to scream and cry and tear the arena down around him, destroying the Capitol in the process. He couldn't do this anymore, couldn't face the games and die like his brother, alone and afraid. 

This all passed in his mind, while his feet walked on.

When the sun was high in the sky, they paused to sit and eat, and discussed tactics for the inevitable encounter with the Careers.

"We stick together. We can't afford to split now, we outnumber them, and that's a great advantage," Bones pointed out, gesturing between the four of them.

"The doctor makes a valid point. We have no room for mistakes." Spock fidgeted with his spear.

"Yeah, one mistake could be the end of all of us." Kirk smiled. "We make a motley crew; a swordsman, a genius, a doctor, and a lumberjack."

"Yes, and that variety makes us stronger than them. They're all the same, sure they're fighters, but we have hidden depths," Bones tried to bite back his laugh on the last word.

"This whole thing is so twisted," Kirk murmured. "If this is my last chance to say it, I would have liked to have known you three outside of the games, where we could have been friends and not had to kill each other or watch each other die."

"I second that," Bones replied.

"Together, until the end?" Sulu quirked an eyebrow.

"Sounds about right." Kirk stood and they prepared to move on. 

"Remember: we know the streets, they know the square. If I know them at all, they'll be trying to tempt us back to the cornucopia rather than engaging us out here," Sulu said, voice laid heavy with trepidation, "and I know them well."

Bones walked beside Kirk as they prowled the streets, hunting for the Careers. They neared the cornucopia, and Sulu ran ahead to scout. It didn’t take long for him to return, declaring the whole square empty. 

Approaching the square where it had all begun set Kirk right on edge. He felt knots deep inside his intestines tightening, his heart rate heightening.

When he saw the boy from District One, the world slipped into slow motion. He was in an upstairs window of the building to their left, two blocks from the cornucopia. In his hand was a long knife.

Kirk whirled, shouting his warning, and Sulu lunged back around the corner, tugging Spock with him. Kirk dived for Bones, exposed in the square, as the One tribute flicked the knife with a sadistic intensity. The impact knocked Bones back a step as he ran for cover. Footing lost, he crashed to the ground, sliding just far enough to be out of range.

On his front from where he had flung himself, Kirk crawled to Bones' side, rolling him over. The knife was lodged deep in the right hand side of his chest, and he was breathing heavily.

"Bones." Kirk didn't know what to say. He just pulled Bones' heavy body into his lap, cradling his head, hand hovering at the site of the wound. Hesitantly, he pressed at the sides of the knife, almost buried up to the hilt, and Bones grunted in pain.

"Jim," Bones hissed through gritted teeth, "These games are yours."

"No, please, just tell me what to do. You're a doctor, I can fix this, just say what I need to do and I'll do it." Kirk was desperate.

"Punctured lung. Even if you had access to a hospital, you’d be doing well to save me. There's nothing to be done, I'm sorry. It's over for me."

"Don't do this, Bones."

"It doesn't hurt so much, really. I'm okay." The strain on Bones' face gave the statement away as the falsity it was. Kirk said nothing, just held him tighter. 

"You have to win, Jim. Don't let the Careers beat you." Bones coughed, and a thin stream of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. “We would have been the best of friends, you know, Jim. You’d have gone charging into all sorts of stupid situations, but I’d have liked you all the better for it.”

“But you wouldn’t have let me know that, Bones. You’d have moaned and griped about my carelessness every time you treated me.” Kirk almost managed a laugh, but it choked off at the end.

Bones looked up at Kirk with a small, strained smile. “It really doesn’t hurt that much,” he managed, voice barely more than a murmur. Energy gone, he relaxed in Kirk’s arms, his eyes glazing over as the cannon fired. 

Kirk couldn’t move for a moment, head bowed, tears in his eyes. Then he shook them away and steeled himself. This had to be it. It ended today. For Bones, if nothing else.

Lying Bones down on the dirt felt disrespectful, but there was nowhere else to put him so Kirk did it anyway, knowing he would have understood. He still did it delicately, sliding his eyes shut so he could have been sleeping. He turned to Sulu and Spock, murder written on his face.

"You find them, any of them, you kill them." As if there had ever been another option. Kirk strode past them, letting them flank him. He walked like a man with nothing left to lose. All he had left was his own promise to himself, made a scant few days ago. It would be one of them who left alive.

They entered the square via a broad main street, Sulu's sword drawn and Spock's spear held at the ready. Kirk brandished his axe with unconcealed malice.

When the girl from One leaped out in front of Sulu, Kirk didn't even flinch, just looked for any other potential threats while Sulu engaged her in an intense clash of blades, knowing that Sulu could handle himself in a swordfight and any interference from Kirk was more likely to be detrimental than helpful. All was a blur of silver and the scrape of colliding metal as each was matched, blow for blow. Any other tribute would have tired, but Sulu was relentless, pressing and pressing until the girl let her guard slip and Sulu darted forward, slashing her wrist. She cried out, and Sulu took advantage, flicking her sword from her hands, kicking it out of reach. Without any theatrics, he then removed her head from her shoulders.

The cannon echoed through the square.

As they fought, Sulu and the girl had moved further into the square and rotated. Kirk had stayed further away, he and Spock splitting to cover the edges of the square. So when Sulu looked up from his headless conquest, his back was totally exposed to a hacking blow from his fellow District Two tribute emerging from the cornucopia, one that went straight through him.

Sulu looked down on the tip of the blade that impaled him, spattered with his own blood, then she tore it back free and he hit the floor.

The cannon cracked the air.

Kirk, fuming at the lapse in concentration which had cost his ally his life, charged across the square and swung his axe, careful to make it seem as though he was acting on brute force. Predictably, Two underestimated his strength and nipped forwards when she thought he would expose himself on the follow through. Kirk pulled every muscle in his arm taut, stopping the movement of his axe and changing its direction so that it returned on a downward angle, tearing the sword from her grip and possibly breaking her fingers.

Kirk cut her scream off short, forcing the axe into her ribcage with all his strength. Blood gurgled desperately in her throat, and her hands clutched at the air. Kirk wrested the blade from her convulsing chest.

The sound of the cannon ricocheted off the walls.

Suddenly alone, the square quiet and empty save for the bodies of the dead, Kirk turned to look for Spock across the empty space. The significance of the moment wasn’t lost on Kirk, finally reaching the point at which Sam had been killed. Him, Spock, and District One. If either was going to kill the other, now was the time.

Together, he and Spock climbed into the cornucopia, waiting in the sun for the end. Spock turned on him, eyes wild with adrenaline, leaking through his serene front.

"Would you kill me, given the chance?"

"Yes, I would. I didn't trust you when we met, and to this moment that hasn't changed." Kirk glared at him. "What did you expect?"

"I simply wanted to know where we stood." Spock was impossibly calm in the circumstances, despite the slight cracks on show.

"Don't pull that on me, Spock. I know you can kill people with brute force and anger when provoked, and don't pretend otherwise. Why else would you have saved the spear?" Kirk was unconvinced by Spock's sudden attitude change.

Spock's eyes flashed. "I kept the spear to protect myself from the District One tribute who is still alive. All I have learned in these frankly disgusting games I have learned from you, from your fierce protective streak to your stories about your brother. I have seen you fight, I know all of your weaknesses, and never, not once, did I think to exploit them, because I could never kill you and live with myself afterwards!" Spock took a step back, anger receding, and Kirk kicked his legs out from under him.

Confused, Spock clattered to the floor, reorienting himself in time to see Kirk hurl his axe into the District One boy, who had aimed his sword for Spock's back. Unbeknownst to Spock, the tribute had approached while he ranted at Kirk, and his aimed blow was a killing one.

"You saved my life," Spock said aloud, surprised.

"It's a shame I couldn't save my own, really." Kirk turned to Spock slowly, the gaping wound carved by One's sword oozing blood down his front. Kirk's knees buckled, and he sank to the floor. The paving stones were cold against his back, but against his hand, he could just feel the few blades of grass creeping through the gaps. It reminded him of home, something which there had been precious little of here.

The world was fading at the edges, blackness creeping in. 

"Why?" Spock asked, crawling to his side and face coming into view.

Kirk hunted for his reasoning, for anything before the fiery pain that consumed his abdomen and climbed slowly through the rest of him, burning away all feeling. "Because I value people," he choked, a ghost of a smile growing on his numb lips. "Your sister will be pleased to have you home, and there's no one waiting in District Seven for Jim Kirk. It's only fair, really, that I should go the same way as Sam did. I've got something he never had, though." Kirk knotted his limp fingers in Spock's shirt. "I've got someone by my side who cares. That's why, Spock, you cared about me when no one would. You all did. And I would have died for any one of you, but I’m glad it’s you, Spock. Because you let me in, you let me talk about Sam and you didn’t judge me for it. You understood me in a way that no one has for a very long time. Thank you, Spock, for being my friend."

"Jim, I can't, I don't-"

"Stop. Just go home, take care of your family, make sure no one can ever hurt them," Kirk gasped shallowly as his vision flickered. "Live long and prosper, Spock."

With the sound of the cannon ringing in his ears, all the world faded to black.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked it, I live on feedback!


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